With wretched perversity the weather bore out Strand’s forecast. The sun burst through the clouds to bathe the rain-drenched south country in its brilliance, the air became pleasantly warm, and every bird in creation seemed determined to offer up a paean of thanks for this respite from the gloom. At any other time, Lisette would have been elated by so glorious a morning; under the circumstances, however, she was all but oblivious of the beauties about her. Strand’s one attempt at conversation was a banal comment on the improved state of the weather, to which infamous behaviour his bride responded with justifiably haughty courtesy. Had he cared even a mite, the wretch would attempt to be conciliating, instead of which he was so heartless as to utter not another word. Her own nerves ragged, she said nothing either, and a deep, unbroachable silence settled over them.
It was almost nine o’clock when Strand turned into the yard of a quaint old inn drowsing comfortably beneath three great oak trees, its whitewashed walls somewhat weather-stained, but the mullioned windows gleaming and with smoke curling from several chimneys. The proprietor of the inn, which was rather inappropriately named The Pines, came hurrying out to them. “Back again so soon, Mr. Justin?” he beamed, adding a disastrous, “And I see you brought the little lady with—” His eyes, having travelled to Lisette, widened. “Oh,” he finished, lamely.
“You must allow me to make you known to my wife,” Strand put in, betraying no trace of embarrassment at this faux pas. “This is Mr. Drye, ma’am,” and, as a fat little woman bustled out to join them, “and his lady, who is also the finest cook in Sussex.”
Lisette summoned her most gracious smile. Strand assisted her to dismount and then went off to the stables with Drye, while Lisette was shown with much curtseying to a small chamber under the eaves. Viewing herself in the mirror, she was not surprised to find that the disastrous ride had reduced her hair to a windblown tangle, the collar of her habit was all awry, and her eyes looked red. She at once set about to correct matters, wondering what Strand must have thought of her appearance, and if the Other Woman ever allowed him to see her in such a state.
The parlour-maid brought up a jug of hot water. Lisette poured some into the china bowl and glared at it. Applying soap to cloth rather savagely, she decided that her husband’s peculiar was likely an insipid blonde who laughed at every feeble joke he offered, and meekly agreed with whatever he had to say. The creature, whoever she was, had evidently visited The Pines a time or two, for it had been very apparent she was the lady Mr. Drye had expected to greet today. How infuriating, thought Lisette, that Strand would be so crude as to bring his wife to the same inn he had frequented with his mistress! But why should she expect anything else? He had not the slightest consideration for her feelings, or—
Conscience jabbed at her as she saw again the image of a lean, strong hand reaching out to grasp her reins. Had it not been for Strand’s chivalrous intervention, she might have taken a very ugly toss this morning. He had, in fact, narrowly missed suffering such a fall himself. Apart from that, his fortune had been a boon to her hard-pressed family, and she had willingly entered a mariage de convenance. It would be shabby indeed to now require of him more than he had offered, or to fail to give credit where due. With this in mind, she completed her toilet, decided she looked passable, and hastened downstairs.
The coffee room was empty and the aroma from the kitchen so enticing that she was tempted to request that her breakfast be served. Her anxiety about Brandy was of prime importance, however, and she decided to go down to the stables while she awaited her husband.
She heard male voices as she entered the spicy dimness of the low building. Several men were gathered in a stall at the far end, and when she came nearer to them she was surprised to discover Strand was still here. He had discarded his jacket and was kneeling, carefully applying salve to Brandy’s back legs, both of which were badly cut and scraped.
Aghast, as she perceived the extent of the animal’s injuries, Lisette cried, “Oh! I am so sorry! Is it very bad?”
Strand glanced up. He looked dusty and grim and said wretchedly, “My own fault. How stupid that I allowed the mud to fool me. I should not have ridden the poor fellow.”
She felt crushed by remorse and, perhaps because she had endured a good deal of nervous strain this day, was quite unable to cope with it. Not trusting herself to speak, she quickly left the stables and walked around to the side of the inn. Here, she discovered a pleasant garden enhanced by the rippling song of a little brook that meandered through it. She sat down on a wooden bench and strove to compose herself. Heaven knows she’d not intended to cause so bad a thing. Poor Brandy. If he was badly hurt, she would be responsible. Whatever had caused her so completely to lose her sense of propriety as to gallop about all over Sussex like some hoydenish gypsy girl? Whatever Timothy would think of her behaviour of late, she dared not imagine. He had been used to tease her because she was “always so curst serene.” He had once said as much to Grandmama, and the old lady had remarked with her sly chuckle, “Still waters run deep, lad. If our ice maiden ever thaws, she may surprise us all!” Grandmama and her whims.… Lisette sighed. It was not to be wondered at that her temperament was suffering, considering all the sorrows and humiliation she had endured. She sighed again as one of those same humiliations slipped back into her thoughts. What was she like, his blond beauty? She was a beauty, beyond doubting, but was she of gentle birth, or nothing but a predatory opera dancer, or some—
“My apologies, ma’am.” Strand’s grave voice disrupted her reflections. “If you would wish to come inside, our breakfast awaits.”
He had washed, his fair hair had been carelessly brushed into a semblance of tidiness, and he had again donned his jacket and tucked his broken hand back into the sling from which it had been removed while he worked with Brandy. Standing, Lisette noted these things absently, for she was searching his eyes. She cried a horrified, “Oh—no! Never say he must be destroyed?”
He took the hand she had reached out to him and looked at her keenly. “I shall most certainly say no such thing! I intend to leave him here for a few days. The head ostler’s a good man and will take excellent care of him. Brandy will make a full recovery, I have no doubt.” He frowned, and muttered, “Had I not made such a blasted mull of things, he’d have suffered less.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Lisette said miserably. “I should never have galloped off, ventre à terre.” She looked down at the thin hand still clasping hers.
Strand’s grip tightened. “Well, you would not have, had I not provoked you into doing so.” Surprised, she looked up into a smile that astounded her with its kindness. “I am the villain in this piece, you know,” he said.
“Villain?” She was oddly confused. “No, indeed you were splendid. Had it not been for you, I would have likely broken my neck. How you managed that jump with only one hand and no reins, I shall never know. I am truly most grateful. I wish—I wish we might—” She stopped, her lashes sweeping down.
Gazing at her, Strand breathed, “Might—what?”
“Might—cry friends.” She felt him start and, glancing up, found him staring at her with an incredulous expression.
“Friends…?” he echoed. “Friends—with my own wife?”
She blushed and looked down. “Oh, I know ours is but a mariage de convenance, and—and that we do not care for one another, but…”
Strand released her hand and turned away. After a moment, he said in an odd sort of voice, “A terrible basis for matrimony, was it not? Had your father not been temporarily embarrassed, I’d have had no chance of winning you.”
He was mocking her, of course, but she quickly lifted her eyes. He stood with his back to her, looking out over the busy brook.
“My father was not ‘temporarily embarrassed,’ as you so kindly put it, Mr. Strand. We were—I think my brother would say—‘properly in the basket.’”
“And you were the price of the family reprieve.” He turned, smiling, but his eyes were empty. “I’m a regular Shylock, am I not?”
The tension seemed to have eased. Relieved, she said gaily, “You may find you made a poor bargain, sir. You seem to possess an uncanny ability to rouse the worst in me.”
Strand brightened, and with laughter dancing into his eyes again, said, “No, do I? How famous!”
* * *
They talked easily through the meal, so that Mr. Drye was convinced he served an ideally happy couple and was encouraged to contribute to the conversation when bringing food or coffee to the table in the recessed window bay that was, he informed Lisette, “Mr. Justin’s favourite spot.”
“I can see why my husband comes here.” She glanced from the mellow homeliness of the interior to the colourful garden. “Truly, it is delightful and greatly to your credit, Mr. Drye. May I ask why it is called The Pines?”
“Why, that were my grandfather.” He beamed. “There had always been oaks here, y’see, ma’am, but by the time he come into the property he’d travelled about the world a bit, being a seafarer, and he’d seen some pines in foreign parts what he was much taken with. The inn was called The Oaks in them days, but he sent for his pines and planted ’em at last, and then struggled with ’em all his life. They never took, poor old chap. Year after year, he’d put ’em in and watch ’em wilt. Never would change to Scotch pines, though many there were as told him they’d take all right. Bound and determined he were, even to the extent of changing the name of the inn. When he was dying, he used to lie in bed and look out at the last of his prize trees, one he had great hopes for. Well, it started to wilt, so me father, being a goodhearted soul, and very attached to the old man, took it out quick one night, brought in a Scotch pine in a tub, and they told Grandfather his foreign tree had took at last. He passed to his reward quite happy—looking at that there Scotch pine, and never knowing it didn’t come from Norway, like he thought. There it is, ma’am.” He bent forward, pointing into the garden where a fine tall tree dominated a spot beside the brook. “You can see how nice it growed.”
Strand laughed. “I wonder he doesn’t come back and shake his fist at the imposter.”
“No, but I think it very well done,” argued Lisette. “How kind your father must have been, Mr. Drye.”
“Aye, well, we all got to do what we can, haven’t we, Mrs. Strand? Folks we love come and go, and sometimes we don’t never know how much we care about ’em till they’re taken and it’s too late for to do anything to let ’em know. So it’s best to be as kind as we may, whilst we may—if’n we don’t want to have to look back with regret for the rest of our days. A little bit o’ compassion is about the best investment a man can make, don’t you agree, sir?”
Watching his wife’s rapt face and thinking a great deal, Strand said, “Yes.”
“What a wonderful philosophy,” Lisette elaborated. “And is that why you never changed the name?”
“Partly that, ma’am, and partly because folks had got used to it and thought it was a bit of a joke. Folks always like a little mistake. Take my name, for instance—that’s a funny one, ain’t it? Me, a tavernkeeper, with a name like Drye! Cor, luvvus!” He grinned and, with his eyes brighter than ever, murmured, “Me missus has been standing over there waving at me something dreadful these past five minutes ’cause I’m jawing, and you be newlywedded, so I’d best go ’fore she hauls me out by the ear!” He nodded and went cheerily off to where, sure enough, his good wife awaited him with total indignation.
Her cheeks a little pink, Lisette glanced at her husband only to find him busily engaged in winding his pocket watch. “A little bit of compassion…” she said thoughtfully.
He glanced up at her from under his lashes. “I can see I must be a great deal more patient.” At once Lisette’s proud head tossed upward, and he went on gravely, but with a telltale quirk tugging at his lips, “With Brutus, that is.”
By the time they returned to the stables, Yasmin looked bright and rested. The tall grey mare beside her looked more than rested: she looked, in fact, all but asleep, and Strand’s decisive stride was checked at the sight of her. “Good God!” he ejaculated and, whirling on the apprehensive ostler, demanded, “What the deuce are you about? Where’s Thunderbolt?”
“Sprained his hock, sir.” The ostler added a placating, “We do be a bit short now, Mr. Justin, bein’s a Lun’on gent come through and hired Sally-O and Pickles, and Mrs. Middle’s eyes be all swole. ’Fraid Dasher here is all we got ’vailable-like.”
Strand grunted, swung into the saddle and, after a few minutes of hard work, succeeded in bringing Dasher’s head up so that they might leave the yard.
By the time they had travelled two miles, Lisette was fighting to restrain hilarity, and Strand was equally occupied with curbing floods of profanity. Darting an irked glance at his bride as they sauntered up an inviting slope of the Downs—a slope created to be galloped over—he saw laughter brimming in her eyes and gave vent to a martyred sigh. “You’ll note, ma’am, that I am moderating my speed?”
“You are all consideration,” she nodded, the dimples beside her mouth peeping.
He laughed. “I suppose I deserve this poor slug. She puts me in mind of one of the horses I had the misfortune to acquire on the night I was returning home through a rainstorm with a certain repulsive dog.”
Lisette blinked innocently into his accusing glance, then cried, “Oh! I had quite forgot poor Brutus. I cannot even recall where we were when last I saw him.”
“Not far from home, to which he doubtless returned with all speed.”
“I wonder why? He usually wants to be wherever you are.”
“Why, the breeze came up, you see, and our Brutus is not as hardy as he appears. That’s the reason—or one of ’em—that I palmed him off on that gullible dimwit, Bolster.” Strand at once perceived that he had offended his bride, for Lisette’s amused smile was replaced by a shocked stare. “Good Gad!” he groaned. “Now what have I done?”
“It just so happens, Mr. Strand,” she said coolly, “that I like Lord Bolster.”
“‘Mr. Strand’ again,” he mused. “Well, at least it wasn’t Sir Justin.” And failing to win a smile back to her eyes, said with a hint of impatience, “For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, don’t be so top lofty! I’ve known Bolster since we was in short coats. He’s as good a man as one could meet, but if you expect me to speak of him with reverence, I—”
“I expect—Mr. Strand,” Lisette declared in frigid tones, “to be addressed by my name—not that revoltingly common abbreviation with which you choose to taunt me! And I further expect that a poor soul who is not quite, er—right mentally, will be treated with kindness, at the very least!”
Mystified, Strand echoed, “Not quite—what? Oh, d’you mean because he stutters? Well, that buys him no special privilege.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Poor Lord Bolster’s mental impairment is—” She stopped, frowning her displeasure as her husband succumbed to a shout of laughter. “Well! Really!” she said with considerable indignation.
Strand was so hilarious that Dasher woke up and turned to survey her rider with drowsy curiosity. “Oh,” moaned Strand, wiping tears from his eyes. “How wretched of you to—to tease me so! And I properly believed you!”
Lisette blinked. “Tease you? But—isn’t Lord Bolster—deranged?”
“Oh, my God!” And he was off again, his mirth so infectious that a slow answering smile softened her irate expression. “Is that,” he sighed at length, “why you were so generous as to take Brutus for him? Oh, my poor wife! You have been properly hoaxed. Whoever told you so ridiculous a tale? Jeremy’s blue-devilled just now because of his romantic muddle, but I do assure you he has every one of his wits intact.”
“But—but I heard Badajoz had left him … er—”
At this, the laughter vanished from his eyes. “Bolster was badly wounded and buried under a pile of the dead. He was found barely alive and in deep shock. But there is nothing wrong with him mentally. Only try to get the best of him in any transaction! I wish you may succeed, in which case you will be the first one to do so! Why anyone would tell you such a rasper I cannot think. Everyone likes old Jerry!”
“Well!” she proclaimed wrathfully. “I think it positively disgraceful! Who would say such a thing if it were not true unless…” She paused. James Garvey had said it, she was sure. And he had not been funning, which must only mean that James had really believed it. He was certainly not the man to—
They came over a rolling hill, and she gave a little cry of admiration. “Oh, look! Is it not beautiful?”
Below, a river wound sparkling towards the sea, its course forming a wide loop about the ruins of a once noble house set amid lush lawns that sloped down to the riverbank. The grounds were well kept up, for flowers were everywhere and there were many fine old trees dotted about the spacious park. Whoever had dwelt here must have maintained a boat, for there was a small dock, just now in sad disrepair.
Watching her expressive face, Strand murmured, “Pretty, isn’t it? But it burnt, as you can see.”
She scanned the rambling old structure appreciatively. “Not all of it—see, at the western end the roof is still intact. And the owners have kept up the place; they must love it. What a tragedy.”
He shrugged indifferently. “Would you care to go down?”
How insensitive he was, she thought, and asked, “Does someone live there? Do you think they would mind?”
“I suspect they’d be delighted that anyone was interested.”
He led the way down the gentle slope and along a winding drivepath which was also well kept up and marked by the wheels of a carriage. The closer they came to the old house, the more Lisette was charmed. It must at one time have been quite large; a rambling half-timbered Tudor. Strand dismounted, tied Dasher—rather unnecessarily—to the charred remnants of a window frame, and turned to aid Lisette from the saddle. He shouted a “Hello!” to the livable end of the house, but there was no sign of life. They wandered through the burnt-out shell, crossing various thresholds until they entered what must have been a spacious chamber.
“What a lovely prospect they must have had,” said Lisette, looking to the river. “Do you think this was the drawing room?”
“Main dining room,” he murmured.
“Hmmnnn, then over here would—” She paused, noticing the soft dancing light that flickered all about them.
“The sun on the water,” he explained. “It’s a peculiarity of this particular spot, and is how the estate got its name.”
“Silverings!” She turned to him in surprise. “Odious man! This is your house!”
“Our house,” he corrected smilingly. “I’m glad you like the old place.”
“Like it! I think it pure delight! But what a terrible loss it must have been.”
“Yes. To my sisters and me. My father never cared for the house and would not have it rebuilt even when he could afford it. I’ve restored the grounds, at least.” A nostalgic light came into his eyes. “We had some happy times here when I was a boy.”
“I can well imagine. It has such a friendly, welcoming air, even now. May I see the other part?”
“Of course.” Pleased by her interest, he led her to a half-open Dutch door at the side of the undamaged structure, peered inside, and called, “Mrs. Ogden? Is anyone here?” There being no response, he reached over to unlatch the lower portion of the door and stood aside, explaining as Lisette entered, “The gardener and his wife live in a cottage on the estate, and she comes every day to put the house in order. She may have gone to the village.”
The room they entered was a good size, the walls whitewashed and the floors of random-width planks, dark and glowing with the patina of the years. An old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked companionably in one corner, and a fine carpet was spread before the wide hearth. Latticed windows were deep-set in thick walls, the seats below piled with thick, brightly coloured cushions. And through those windows came the pleasant light from the river, to dance over the large marine oil painting that hung above the mantel, and brighten the blooms of a bowl of spring flowers which graced a side table. The furnishings had clean lines and were luxurious without being ornate, and there were many books in the several bookcases placed against the west wall.
Entranced, Lisette wandered about, exclaiming over this or that, while Strand watched her. “You really are pleased with Silverings,” he observed at last.
She swung to him, eyes alight. “Oh, yes. It reminds me of the farm we once owned. It was a funny old place, but we passed such wonderful summers there. May I see the rest?”
He assented readily and took her through a small dining room and up what had apparently been the back stairs, to a pair of bedrooms, in one of which Lisette’s eyes were at once drawn to a small bottle of scent on a dressing table.
“This area originally constituted the butler’s quarters,” Strand explained with a touch of pride. “And the room we first came into downstairs was used to be the servants’ hall.”
Forcing her eyes from that betraying little bottle, Lisette said, “Oh. Well, you have restored it very nicely.”
He glanced at her, surprised by the changed tone and more surprised by the sudden flush that warmed her cheeks. “Thank you. If you really like it, I thought perhaps … well, we could—ah—”
“Come down here?” she said eagerly. “Oh, I should love it! How nice to wake up in the mornings and look out at the river. So much more agreeable than—” She bit her lip, embarrassed.
“What’s this?” He grinned. “Are you quite disenchanted with the Hall?”
“Oh, no! It is—er—very impressive. But—I prefer this.”
He gave an exclamation of delight. “How famous! I was afraid you’d prefer our more dignified residence. For myself, I never could abide the place. And Tristram tells me that when first he saw it, he’s sure he must have turned pale!”
Amused, she agreed, “Leith is not the type to be impressed by…”
“Pretension?” he prompted. “Never hesitate for my sake.” He glanced to the window. “However, in view of my intrepid Dasher, if we’re to be home by dusk I think we should be starting now, ma’am.”
By the time they reached The Pines, the wind was rising and the clouds looked so threatening that Strand decided to take luncheon at the old tavern. Over the meal they enjoyed a long discussion regarding the possibilities of restoring Silverings, a venture with which Lisette was thoroughly in accord. She was mildly surprised when her husband not only encouraged her to voice her opinions regarding the reconstruction, but seemed sincerely interested in what she had to offer. When they were ready to leave, Strand was able to exchange his steed for a somewhat less somnambulistic animal. The storm had drifted away, and they started out in fair weather. Again, Strand proved a pleasant companion. He had taken quite a liking to Lisette’s family and she was pleased when he suggested that she invite Norman to spend a week or two with them during the summer. All in all, she felt amazingly light-hearted by the time they rode into the yard at the Hall, and was more in charity with her husband than she’d been since first she saw him.
Best and another groom hastened to take their mounts. Strand responded to Best’s anxious enquiries about Brandy, but it seemed to Lisette that the groom was not reassured. Glancing back as they walked away, she surprised a furtive anxiety in the man’s eyes and, turning to her husband, realized belatedly that he looked tired. It must have been a wearing day; that jump especially had been taxing, and she knew a twinge of guilt that she’d not previously considered that his arm might be paining him. “Strand,” she said “are you—”
“Lisette!”
“Surprise! Surprise!”
“Look who has come to pay a bride call!”
The shout, the squeal, and the amused, high-pitched cry brought Lisette running to embrace Norman and her two sisters. Judith looked plumply pretty and overjoyed, Norman was genuinely glad to see her, and Beatrice was a picture of elegance in a robe of green sarsenet over a slip of palest green cambric. She kissed her sister sweetly but not so unaffectedly as had Judith, taking care not to ruffle her coiffure.
“How lovely you look!” Lisette exclaimed. “And, oh, how very glad I am to see you all.”
“I had supposed you might be,” murmured Beatrice with a sidelong glance at Strand. “Which is precisely why we came.”
Flustered, Lisette suggested they all return to the house, and in they went, Judith and Norman both talking at once, Beatrice’s arm twined in Lisette’s, and Strand quietly bringing up the rear.
Happily, the Van Lindsay party had arrived sufficiently early that the chef had been granted time to prepare his usual excellent meal. The dining room rang with chatter, and Lisette, delighted by this visit from her loved ones, was animated and—so thought Strand—glowing with happiness. The conversation swept from the wedding, to Strand Hall, which Beatrice thought enchanting, to Brutus, whom Norman thought a jolly fine dog, to Charity Strand and what a very charming girl she was. Strand wholeheartedly agreed with this, contributing his longest sentence thus far when he said that both his sisters were “rare human beings.”
The faintest breath of unease touched Lisette. Her brows arching, she asked, “Did you meet Charity in town, Beatrice?”
“No, love. Here. Today.”
“She came back?” Strand said sharply. “But she only left here yesterday afternoon. She was not ill, I trust, Lady William?”
“No, no,” Beatrice answered, putting down her wine glass. “But it seems they encountered such bad road conditions between here and Godalming that they were compelled to put up at an inn for the night, and then your sister recalled something she had promised to take to Mrs. Leith, so she turned back.” Her eyes sliding to Lisette, she smirked, “I could not have been more pleased, for we had such a delightful cose.”
Lisette smiled. Inwardly, however, she was dismayed. Charity was so innocent and naïve; she would be no match for Beatrice.
“Well, I’m sorry we missed her,” said Strand. “But we are fortunate to have more company. May we hope you mean to spend some time with us, ma’am?”
“Alas, but I cannot,” sighed Beatrice. “Indeed, I should not have come at all, save to bring the children to you.”
Lisette stared at her blankly. Amused, Strand raised his eyebrows and waited.
Looking from one to the other, Beatrice said, “Well, you must have got Mama’s letter by now, surely?”
Lisette had received no such letter, but an enquiry to Fisher elicited the information that one had arrived this morning and would be brought at once. Lisette requested it be delivered to her in the drawing room, and they left Strand to his port.
Excusing herself, Lisette read her letter as hurriedly as her mother’s flourishing hand would allow. Dear Great-Uncle Ian had, it would seem, received notice to quit and had sent word that he desired his near and dear to be around him at the end. Since “dear Great-Uncle Ian” was of a dour and reclusive nature and dwelt on one of the Scottish islands, this entailed quite a journey, but since he also was said to be an extremely wealthy old gentleman, Mrs. Van Lindsay had undoubtedly undertaken it without hesitation. Norman and Judith would benefit by a change from the London scene, she wrote, and since summer was almost upon them it would not do any incalculable damage for them to leave their studies now and spend a few weeks with Beatrice—at least until their parents returned, when they might possibly all remove to Worthing for a time. The rest of the letter was of small consequence and Lisette folded it and said thoughtfully, “Poor Uncle Ian.”
Beatrice sniffed. “About time, was you to ask me. I vow I thought the man would live forever! Oh, never look at me in that silly, fusty fashion! You know he had his three score and ten at least a decade since. He’s rich as Croesus and Mama was always his favourite, so perhaps she will now stop expecting me to open my purse each time they are in the basket. I declare, poor William has been more than generous. And patient? My dear husband is the very soul of patience, but there comes a limit, and you’ll own Norman and Judith have not been strictly reared and their behaviour is not what one might wish.”
It was at about this time that Judith and Norman were jointly overtaken by the effects of the long journey and in a rare display of weariness elected to go early to bed.
“I am not at all surprised,” said Beatrice, receiving a dutiful good-night kiss from each. “Had you not felt it necessary to explore the entire estate with that horrid animal the instant we arrived, you might be less fatigued.”
“We might,” Judith retaliated, hugging Lisette. “But only think how it gave you the chance to worm as much as you could out of poor Charity Strand.”
Beatrice uttered an enraged screech and sprang to her feet, and the younger Van Lindsays fled, Norman’s whoop echoing after them as he closed the door.
“Do you see what I mean?” Beatrice asked angrily, sitting down and smoothing her robe. “They are not to be borne!”
“From what Mama writes, dear, you could not have borne them longer than three or four days.”
Lisette had spoken mildly, but Beatrice fired up at once. “And I collect you meant me to carry the whole burden—as usual! I vow it is so unfair. With Timothy away, everything falls on my head, only because I am the eldest. Nobody stops to consider that I might have plans! Or cares if poor William is reduced to a nervous wreck.”
Since Beatrice had never been known to offer the least assistance in time of crisis and would, in fact, go to considerable lengths to be suddenly “called away” in the event of illness in the family, Lisette found it difficult to summon much sympathy for this tale of woe. She knew “poor William” a good deal better than her sister imagined and was well aware that he both loved children and longed to set up his nursery. He was the most amiable of men and would, she had no doubt, have been delighted to host his niece and nephew on an indefinite basis. The truth of the matter was, she suspected, that Beatrice did not want to remain in the country, but had no wish to be cooped up in a town-house with a sister and brother who were, admittedly, rather a handful.
Watching her obliquely, Beatrice said a persuasive, “After all, it’s not as though yours were a love match, dearest. Besides, since Strand is—is incapacitated—” She stopped, her eyes brimming, and went off into a small gale of mirth. “My clever Lisette! I thought I must burst with laughter when Charity told me the way of it!”
Lisette’s hand tightened on her fan. “Told you—what?”
“Of how you drove him off for the first week and then was so fortunate as to have him trip over the dog! La, what a wretch you are! The poor man must be seething with rage. And—frustration! Did you—did you give the poor doggie a bone, love?” And again, she dissolved into hilarity.
This was exactly what Lisette had feared. Charity, obviously adoring her brother, had certainly said nothing malicious, but Beatrice’s shrewd mind had very quickly put two and two together. She said stiffly, “That is not true, Bea! I must ask that you do not repeat—”
“Not true? Of course it’s true! Mama told me how bitterly you wept when you were compelled to wed the creature, and—”
“Do I perhaps intrude, ladies?”
Strand’s cool voice seemed to slice through Beatrice’s words. Lisette’s eyes shot to the door. He stood on the threshold. His lips were faintly smiling, but it was a rather grim smile and Lisette felt her cheeks blaze.
Showing not the slightest trace of embarrassment, Beatrice said blithely, “Oh, pray do come in, Strand. We are bored to death without a gentleman.”
He walked in his quick way to poke up the fire and enquire if either lady desired a screen for the draught, for the wind was blowing ever more strongly. They both declined, however, and since each was busied with more or less the same strain of thought, a brief silence fell. Strand broke it, observing blandly, “It is rather chill this evening. I doubt you needed your fan, my love.”
“Very true,” said Beatrice. “I quite thought it would rain this morning”
“Did you?” said Strand.
“Yes, but it did not after all.”
Strand’s eyes, gleaming with mischief, darted to Lisette. She felt a surge of relief. He must not have heard! “Perhaps it will rain tomorrow,” she contributed demurely.
He broke into a laugh. “You always can top me, my sweet.”
He sounded genuinely fond, and an odd sensation shivered between Lisette’s shoulder blades.
Beatrice looked wonderingly from one to the other, and Strand said politely, “Your pardon, Lady William. My wife was roasting me because of my scintillating conversation.”
“Oh,” said Beatrice vaguely. “Well, we cannot all be accomplished. I feel sure you must have some talent, Strand.”
He grinned and admitted he was the dullest of men, but Lisette said defensively, “Save when a lady’s life is in peril, do you mean? Words would not have saved me this morning, Justin.”
He looked down, a flush burning his cheeks.
Beatrice at once demanding to hear the story, Lisette told her, Strand inserting an occasional mumbled complaint that she made more of the incident than was warranted.
“Good gracious!” Beatrice exclaimed when the tale was done. “That was positively heroical in you, Strand. I’ll allow I am surprised, for when we heard you had broke your arm on your honeymoon, so many thought it a downright silly thing to have done.”
Strand’s eyes, lifting slowly to Beatrice, contained a thoughtful and unsmiling hauteur. It was an expression Lisette had seen before, and she held her breath. Beatrice saw that glimpse of steel and, being nobody’s fool, said hurriedly, “How you could have accomplished such a deed with but one hand defies imagination. I can scarce wait to tell William!”
The balance of the evening passed quite pleasantly, and since Beatrice announced her intention of leaving the following day, Lisette could only pray that no more such difficult periods would have to be endured—for a time at least.
It was a prayer destined not to be granted.